Maybe the letter isn’t from a lover the letter is a layoff letter a lay aside letter a lay into letter maybe the letter says you are an employee of me and I certainly
We passed the baby over the bed, and later we passed tissue, and her Bible with its onion skin pages, its highlighted lessons and dog-eared parables she kept handy with bookmarks
I’m telling you, was always like this: her fingers around a cold glass, asking me if I really thought her lovely. In a musky corner booth, thinking only of ourselves. We let one another be
A photo essay about The Cradle Project, an art installation designed to call attention to the plight of millions of children orphaned in Sub-Saharan Africa.
The vow was unspoken between them: Once started on their drive into a more northerly part of the state, once embarked upon this journey, they could not turn back.
I intend to converse with many. None in the same room. I have a daughter to search for, an acre of farmland to sell. I must confirm that flour is falling and copper is rising;
It isn’t surprising that the women of Jararaca and its neighboring communities have turned to selling their bodies for a few liters of fuel; exchanging sex for food, money, and now diesel is something of a dark pastime of the region.
